Hemmingway

The whole room was a battle scene. Everywhere you looked there were things clashing, striking, and fighting for the main focus. My eyes settled, as usual, onto my favorite poster of Marilyn Manson, dark and glooming, it thrusts itself away from the bright peach colored wall, declaring its individuality. It was her biggest eyesore, I knew, she and I had fought about it repeatedly. She had even stooped to begging me to remove it.

“Will you throw that damn thing out already?” She exclaimed.

I remained silent and unmoving, waiting.

“Are you going to move at all? Or blink? Why do you care about that thing so damn much!?”

At this I turned my gaze off the poster and met her glare straight on and yet said nothing.

“Say something!”

“Something,” I smirked.

At this she gave her usual frustrated growl and turned and stormed out of the room. Knowing she would return within the hour, I sat back down and stared at my poster once again. For a long time I did nothing, I don’t even think to I blinked. Then slowly I stood and gently, as if removing a sacred painting, took down my destroyed poster, folded it over six or seven times and placed it into the garbage bin. Then I sat back down and stared at the empty space on the wall.